


Arabesque

by CharmedBritannia



Series: Johnlock AUs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Jock John, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-22 22:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8304334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharmedBritannia/pseuds/CharmedBritannia
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a very talented danseur who couldn't care less what others think of him or his lifestyle. John Watson is the lovable jock, and he wants. Oh, does he want. Cue high school in all its shitty glory.





	1. Arabesque

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome all! Thank you for your interest. Comments are always appreciated! Leave your prompts for an AU, and I'll do my best, agreed?
> 
> With that, onwards!

**_Arabesque:_   ** _A ballet position where the dancer holds themselves on one foot (on pointe **only** if they are experienced enough), and extends the opposite leg behind them. Arms are positioned either outwards or upwards._

**_\-----_ **

One and two and one and two and three and four and five...

 

Sherlock Holmes followed time with the utmost concentration. His movements were fluid and graceful; easily slipping from one position to the next. He couldn't fall asleep, so he was working on refining his  _adage_ pacing. He had a quick mind, and thus he had to force it to slow down in order to keep count precisely. But to the casual observer, there were no jerks or anything of the sort. The others in his troupe had long since ceased for the day, but Sherlock had gotten that itch of boredom that nagged at him. It kept him from properly resting, so he had decided to make his way downstairs into his studio.

 

Besides his lab, it was his favourite room in the house. Once it became completely apparent that the younger Holmes was not going to stop dancing anytime in the foreseeable future, one of the rooms that branched off the main basement was transformed into a simple studio. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, sturdy barres, and polished wood floors made it adequate, but the unspoken rule that no one was allowed inside made it astounding. The only people (besides his family) who had seen the inside were Irene Adler and Molly Hooper; two members of his troupe that he practised with from time to time. Molly had harboured a ridiculous crush on him for two years, but after informing her that he was not interested in entering a relationship with anyone (and that even if he was it wouldn't be her because he was homosexual), it lost steam and that was that. She had a new crush now; one who might actually reciprocate her feelings.

 

He had gotten the standard, unimaginative 'gay guy does ballet' jokes from the 'popular' students for a while. Stack that onto the 'focused, introverted nerd' stereotype, and he had been ridiculed, tripped, sneered at, etc. But he had then proceeded to set fire to a chemistry lab, blowing the door open scorching a bit of the hallway, during lunch. No one approached him outright anymore. They still muttered and grimaced and hissed, but they also feared he might murder them if he heard.

 

Morons, the lot of them. He had excellent hearing.

 

But no matter. He was a junior, and was planning on leaving for college, anyway. His genius-level IQ, extra-curricular dance, and the depths of his parents pockets assured that. The only hindrance in his way was the actual ' _graduating from high school'_ requirement. Nine out of ten of his core credits bored the snot out of him, and thus he was extremely difficult to get into class. He passed the tests, anyway, and his dance counted for Physical Education. No reason to sit in those boxes of idiotic conformity besides the likes of Philip Anderson.

 

He might just off himself.

 

As he transitioned from a  _chasse_ into  _attitude sur les pointe,_ he let all of that fall away. He had an exhibition to prepare for, anyway.

**\-----**

"Thanks for coming, mate. I owe you one."

 

John raised an eyebrow.

 

"You're welcome. Don't see why you couldn't come by yourself, though."

"It would have looked obvious and creepy if I just popped in alone! And I'd stick out for sure."

"Greg, we're rugby players. We sort of stick out regardless, in this crowd."

 

And it was unfortunately sort of true. The majority of this audience was either family or fellow performers, and John Watson and Greg Lestrade were neither. The dance team was securely nestled in the artistic group, and they were more exclusive than a VIP table in any club. Though the members were admired and chased after on a regular basis, they mostly mingled with themselves. They also mostly looked down on rugby and its players, anyway. It lacked 'finesse', or whatever. But Greg had a crush on one of the dancers: Molly Hooper. So when she had shyly invited him to come watch the Fall Exhibition, he had practically begged him to come along. He didn't want to look 'presumptuous' by just showing up by himself, and none of the others would behave themselves.

 

Sometimes it bit being one of the responsible ones.

 

He had agreed, and so here he was. He was more moral support than anything, really. At least he had a decent view.Third row from the stage, as a matter of fact. Apparently Molly had reserved a good seat if Greg wanted to come watch ( _"Really, Greg? You don't even need me at this point!"_ ), and Greg had snagged him a seat next to him as his guest. He shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all, and settled in to watch.

**\-----**

The show had been going exactly as expected. It was made up of multiple 'mini-shows' that featured various dancers. It was actually more entertaining than he'd thought it would be; it was obvious that the performers practiced quite a bit, and were very good at what they did. It was about an hour in when a group of girls exited the stage. He'd seen several attractive ones, and he would have tried to go after them if they weren't so much 'holier than thou'. But his musings were abruptly cut off when the music stopped completely, and a hush fell over the auditorium. 

 

And then all the lights went out.

 

He and Greg turned from left to right, but no one else was reacting in any way, so they settled back in and chalked it up to part of the show. The silence stretched on, seemingly more deafening then the music from before. The lights came back on, though much darker than before. Where the last show had been a lively dance through the meadow, this seemed to be a somber, midnight dance in the shadows. And then the music began: a slightly haunting tune on the violin. Two dancers, a boy and a girl, entered from opposite sides of the stage. The music drawled on as they made their way to center stage. 

 

And then it happened.

 

Once they met, it was like the music exploded into something fast-paced and intense. Pianos and violins and cymbals; it was all there. They didn't dance  _with_ each other. No, they danced  _around_ each other, neither trying to catch their partner. It was almost like they were daring each other to catch up. A challenge. The lights never brightened, so he couldn't focus on their faces. He could only go off of the movements. Normally quick and precise, although sometimes slow and fluid, the few minutes they danced had captured his attention. Once it was over, the announcer gave their names: Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes. They bowed, and exited the way each of them came.

 

He couldn't focus on any routines after that.

**\-----**

Greg met Molly backstage after the show. He had brought her flowers like the gooey sap he was, and ran a hand through his hair while trying to emphasize how good she was at dancing. John noticed how determined he looked to keep his eyes on her face; they didn't move at all. Commendable, seeing as how she was wearing nothing but a leotard and tights. But he couldn't help himself.

 

"So, that Sherlock fellow and Irene gal. I really liked their performance; can I go tell them?"

 

Molly looked hesitant, but nodded regardless. She waved at them to follow her, and before long they were in front a large dressing room.

 

"They should both be in there."

"They...share?"

"It's not uncommon for dancers in the same show or scene to share a dressing room. And they perform together in nearly every show, anyway. They're used to it."

"Really?"

 

He could see it. They  _did_ mesh well together. Molly laughed.

 

"They're both sort of intimidating to work with. They scare everyone else who has to perform alongside them. It's okay if it's the whole troupe, but just a  _pas de deux-_ sorry, that's a dance for two-?"  


She snorted. John was suddenly much less confident in his decision, but it was too late now. Molly had already knocked.

 

"They'd tear anyone else's self-esteem to shreds. They wouldn't survive practice. Hey! Are you two decent?"

 

Two affirmatives called out.

 

" _Society's_ decent, you two."

 

There was a brief pause, but the affirmative remained. Molly opened the door into a room with a couch, two chairs, mirrors, and snacks. John choked on air.

 

"You have visitors. Try and be appropriate."

 

Two sets of eyes had flashed towards them. The girl (woman, really) smiled a dangerous smirk, while the other gave him a once-over and looked away, obviously disinterested. Both had shed the top layer of their costumes and their shoes, leaving them in the bare minimum, much like Molly herself. 

 

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

 

Before he could say anything, even his name, the male spoke up.

 

"Rugby players. Seniors; the compact one is the captain. The taller one is the co-captain; Gavin or Geoffrey or something. Neither are frequent participants in the arts, and the shorter one has actually written this off as a one-time thing. Don't even bother teasing them, Adler. One is smitten with Molly, and while the other has _experience_ with both heterosexuality, he is currently leaning towards homosexuality."

"You always ruin all my fun, damn it."

"Your idea of  _fun_ is questionable at best, and downright filthy at worst."

"I'm going to strangle you with your shoe ribbons."

"You can try. But that'd actually be a rather ineffective way to go about it, not to mention it'd be obvious it was you-"

 

Sherlock ducked as a hairbrush sailed inches from where his head had been. From the way he snapped back upwards, that happened enough that he was used to it. John was still trying to wrap his head around his previous words. Molly just sighed.

 

"His name is Greg, Sherlock. I've told you this."

"Yes. And I've told  _you_ that I need the space in my Mind Palace for other topics. His name is never going to stick."

"How did you know all that?"

 

Sherlock's icy-green eyes snapped back over to him, almost looking surprised he was still there.

 

"I just observed, and deduced from those observations. You both seem to have built, lean frames with heavy muscle. Not common in the art programs, but almost mandatory in sports. And there's really only one sport available at this school that would foster that physique. Also, Molly had been mentioning that her new potential partner is playing a sport.  _Playing,_ not 'played' or 'will play'. What sport is currently in season which requires those forms? Rugby. And as Molly also said, Gavin is a Senior and co-captain-"

"Greg."

" _Greg_ is co-captain, which, unlike a vice-captain, means there is a lower power-gap between the two. So he if he is a Senior and co-captain, that means that there is a high chance of him being close friends with the captain, who will most likely be another Senior. Which is you."

"But-"

"I know things others don't. I make connections where others can't. And when other people are out of their depth, which is always, I am there to make sense of it."

" _Brilliant."_

 

Sherlock blinked, obviously thrown for a loop.

 

"Really?"

"Yes. That was amazing. Quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

 

John frowned at first, but Sherlock smirked, causing him to chuckle. Irene looked down at her phone.

 

"As hilarious as this conversation is, we need to get going, Sherlock. Your parents are expecting you by ten-thirty."

"Ugh. Dull."

 

But he rose to his feet anyway, stretching, and John's mouth ran dry. He was lean and angular in the best way, with alabaster skin and ebony hair. He made walking over to grab his bag look like he should be on a stage or a runway.

 

He wanted to touch.

 

But all good things must end. And when Sherlock slipped an over-sized hoodie and a pair of joggers on, hiding his body from view, John forced his eyes back upwards. Luckily, Sherlock was scrolling through his phone, already bored. He didn't know what he was thinking, but he knew he couldn't just let him disappear.

 

"Hey, you guys should come to our game next Friday. I mean, it's only fair, right?"

 

Greg looked panicked, but Molly's eyes brightened.

 

"That sounds fantastic! We'd love to, right guys?"

 

If there was one thing Molly Hooper had, it was a killer puppy-dog face. Irene and Sherlock looked like they'd rather tear their own faces off, but Irene had a soft spot for Molly a mile wide, and Sherlock couldn't be bothered to fight against both of them. Irene clapped her hands together.

 

"Sweaty, rowdy young men in short-shorts showing off their muscles in a display off testosterone? Sounds  _just_ my style."

"You are a lesbian, Adler."

"Sexy is sexy, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock met his eyes for the barest hint of a second.

 

"I suppose."

**\-----**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**\-----**

It was Monday afternoon, and the dance troupe was divided into chosen groups for their warm up stretches. Although he was in the mood to stretch in solidarity, Irene Adler had other ideas. She took up a spot on the barre next to him, and stared at him. Sherlock chose to ignore the cat-full-of-cream expression Irene was sporting, deciding to focus on his stretches. He could almost reach his chest to his knee...just a little further-

 

"So, what are you going to wear on Friday?"

 

Concentration ruined.

 

Sherlock shot her a completely ineffective scowl. Irene merely contorted her body further, seemingly innocent. Innocent his ass.

 

"I wasn't aware there was a dress code for high-school rugby matches."

"Don't act dumb, Sherlock. Smart is far sexier."

 

She really didn't mean to tease him as she did, but the poor lad had pretty much zero experience when it came to sexual attraction. Just the mention of it rid him of almost any natural grace he possessed. Red face, stumbling over words; it was quite adorable, actually. Right on que, the flush of red rose up the back of his neck, and his expression soured further. He huffed.

 

"I have a vague idea what you're implying, Adler, and I am telling you right now that it will never happen."

"Because you don't want it to, or because it's impossible?"

"Both."

 

He had been thinking over the invitation all weekend. It buzzed around like and an annoying fly, and no matter how much he swatted at it, the stupid thing wouldn't die. It wasn't even the invitation itself that had him...unsettled. It was the person who extended it.

 

John Watson was... _interesting._ That was the only word for it. He knew who he was; who in this damn learning institution didn't? He was the hero of the rugby team who led their team to victory last year despite not even being formally in charge. That was quickly remedied by the previous captain, and he had acted surprised and humble, as if he  _wasn't_ the obvious choice. Despite being the shortest on the team by a few centimeters, his seriousness and willingness to do what needed to be done made him appear to stand just as tall, if not taller, than his teammates. Sandy blonde hair and blue eyes was just the bow on the package, as were the muscles and boyish smile. He was going soft. He refused to allow these... _feelings..._ to ruin cloud his judgement and turn him into a lovesick fool. Mycroft would have a damn _field day_. But he couldn't help but be drawn to interesting things. And what reason could there be for a well-known and widely admired 'popular kid' to extend an invitation to an anti-social, high-functioning sociopath? That question piqued his curiosity.

 

He'd never had a good handle on that, anyway.

 

Irene rolled her eyes. She looked like she wanted to smack him upside the head, an expression she wore often.

 

"He's  _interested in you,_ you oblivious dolt."

"No, he's not. It's nowhere near probable."

"Says who?"

"Says  _logic._ He is far higher on the 'social ladder' than I am. He participates in a far more widely accepted sport than I do. His previous relationships have all been with peers more similar to him in status, interests, and who care about social niceties. He is still struggling through a sexuality shift. Need I go on?"

 

Sherlock snapped back to an upright position, face blank. Irene winced. It was pointless to try and get through to him when his face was that expressionless. She still caught a flash of something like a mixture of frustration and repression in his eyes, though. He could never mask those; they were his only true tell. He wasn't hard or cold; he just didn't know how to properly deal with something as unpredictable and illogical as emotions. She sighed, and followed him to the group. Maybe she'd try again later.

**\-----**

"John Hamish Watson. What the hell were you _thinking_?"

 

John glared. Greg  _knew_ he hated his middle name. He threw his hands in the air.

 

"It just slipped out! Look, would you just calm down?"

"No! Did you see their show? It was sophisticated as  _shit._ We're going to look like _neanderthals_. This is all your fault."

"Molly  _knows_ you play rugby, Greg. I don't think she'll much care."

"But what about the other two? The whole dance team is pretty tight-knit. What if they manage to convince her that it's fucking disgraceful or some shit like that?"

"Panicking won't help-"

"I think it's justified-"

"It's  _not going to help-"_

"Why the fuck would you even-"

 

Greg froze mid sentence. John had broken eye-contact, and seemed to be looking anywhere but his face. He was too honest, and lying wasn't his forte, so he avoided the topic instead. But why would he feel the need to-

 

"Oh shit.  _Oh shit._ You  _like_ one of them."

"Shut  _up,_ Lestrade."

"You're  _attracted_ to one of them. Apparently the most sarcastic and cutting people you could ever know, the ones that  _Molly was hesitant to let you meet,_ and you popped a stiffie for one of them."

"Could you lower your voice?"

"Not really. Christ. Which one was it?"

"Of for the love of-"

"The girl didn't seem like your usual type. Wait."

 

John felt his face burn, and face-palmed. 

 

" _Christ._ It's so obvious now. You didn't even look at the girl. You spat out words without thinking. You called him  _brilliant. You called him extraordinary._ "

 

Greg started laughing, and he groaned.

 

"I feel so sorry for you, mate. You made the worst choice you ever could have. You have a crush on  _Sherlock Holmes._ You do know that he blew up a Chemistry lab, right? And the lunch crew found a decomposing foot in one of the fridges. They had to call in a haz-mat team to decontaminate it. And do you know what he said? 'I put in in a jar'."

 

John blinked in disbelief. 

 

"Ask around if you don't believe me. There's something off about Sherlock Holmes."

**\-----**


End file.
